Addicted
by GeminiMachine333
Summary: After John and Mary's wedding, Sherlock is not coping well and turns to drugs. John finds out and decides to wean Sherlock himself. What ensues is a whole lot of truth telling, discoveries about themselves and one another... and some smut. Johnlock! Adultery, Angst, Drugs, Self-Mutilation, Kink, and more! This takes place within Season 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all. This is a little diddy inspired by Sherlock's nasty habit and that span of time John and Sherlock spent apart. It takes place before they ever come in contact with Magnussen, however. This story involves drugs, sex, and rock and roll (well maybe not the latter), plus a fair bit of angst, adultery, and anger.**

 **I don't own or make money from this fic. BBC owns Sherlock. But boy if I had an hour with that man...**

 _This is obviously the best way to convince Magnussen that I'm not a threat. If he believes I'm a worthless, sobbing addict, it will be that much easier to catch him unawares..._ Sherlock thought to himself, staring down the sharp end of a syringe.

Of course, Sherlock didn't need to actually _do_ the drugs. Surely it would have been effective enough to be seen in the drug dens, to be caught making obvious cocaine sales on the back streets and then stashing it away, unused.

But...

There was something missing from Sherlock's life. Some gigantic chunk of him that he had become so accustomed to having and was suddenly just gone. A piece of Sherlock had been gained when he met John that was never there before. John was like the masterstroke on the painting of his psyche. No person had ever added to Sherlock, no one had ever succeeded in making him better from simply having known them. And there was no doubt about it, Sherlock was better for having known John. John did something to him, made him...human. But now that piece of him was gone and Sherlock felt the loss acutely. As far as he was concerned, John had fallen into a black hole of domestic servitude never to resurface. So what was going to replace him?

Truly nothing could ever replace John, but maybe some of this pain, this bloody aching loneliness that never plagued him before John, could be tempered. Maybe he didn't have to feel the cold of the emptiness. Maybe he could shut out the ghosts of longing that Sherlock had struggled to stifle ever since they began to appear.

Was this momentary salvation worth sacrificing the years that he had been clean? Was it worth going back to that place of substance worship he already left far behind?

Unequivocally, yes.

Sherlock buried the sacred sharp into his wanting skin, a blessed ritual of the only religion he had ever known: Self Indulgence. Moments later, Sherlock was free.

John sat at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in hand, reading the news on his laptop with one leg bouncing around anxiously. All this crime. John looked at all the cases and absentmindedly imagined which ones Sherlock would find interesting.

 _Hooker found dead in a bathtub? Well that one is rather obvious, even for me. An alleged framing involving a well-to-do banker? Well at least that one is rather posh. I'd imagine Sherlock would have us dressed up in tuxedos, gallivanting around some rich people's party, sniffing for clues behind bookcases. Of course if there was a more interesting murder …_

"Dear?" came the clear voice of John's new wife. Her face was illuminated by the morning light streaming through the kitchen, igniting her presence that warmed him like a hearth flame.

"Hmm?" he replied, moving his eyes back to the screen after a long moment.

"Why don't you go visit him?" Mary asked, giving him a cheeky smile.

"Who?" John asked, staring at her in earnest. Though he had an inkling of who she meant.

"Sherlock. Not for your sake, of course. I just think it might do him good to check up on him," She suggested, taking a sip from her cup.

"And miss spending the day with you? Perish the thought," John said, moving from his place to go kiss her gently on the lips. "Plus, I'm sure Sherlock is fine. He has Mrs. Hudson to wait on him, whether she'll admit to doing it or not. He's probably at the Yard right now, causing an upset of some sort," John assured. Who he was assuring he could hardly tell.

"Alright, love," said Mary, settling into his embrace.

Of course John missed Sherlock. In a lot of ways he missed their life together. The intrigue, the danger...he missed being around that sort of brilliance, too. Even the frustrating things Sherlock did now seemed to hold some charm to them. But that wasn't John's life anymore. He had his family to worry about, and he couldn't very well provide for his family if he was killed by some psychopath in the name of justice.

 _And to be honest,_ John thought, _it may hurt just a bit to see him living in Baker Street without me there. I rather prided myself on being the best friend to Sherlock Holmes, and now that's all over._

* * *

John shrugged off his emotions and turned the full force of his attention to Mary, a shining light of pure grace.

A month passed and Sherlock kept his eye on the prize. _Magnussen._ Or drugs. To be honest, Sherlock wasn't sure which was more important at this point. Of course, the drugs were a means to an end. Magnussen was the real target. This wasn't like the last time. He didn't need the drugs, they were just an added bonus. Of course after this case he would stop. He wasn't an addict anymore. Absolutely not addicted.

Sharp pinch.

Plunger in.

Relief.

A wave of euphoria and Sherlock felt as if he could deal with the world and all its frustrating trivialities. He picked up his violin and started to play an up tempo, jaunty tune. He felt the blood thrumming through his veins and his thoughts doubled and re-doubled in his mind until they were just beautiful, white noise against his melody.

"Well that's lovely," came a chirp from the doorway. It was Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

Sherlock said nothing and was unable to stop the invasive smile spreading like oil across his face. He did not stop playing.

"My, it is good to see your mood improving, dear. I have to say I was a bit worried for a while. What with John gone off and you being cooped up here all by your lonesome, I was beginning to think...

Her words joined the cacophony of other noises Sherlock was acutely aware of. The noise of the street, the rustling of tree leaves, birds chirping, sirens squealing, wasn't it all just a wonderful symphony of madness? Madness that would take them all. Spiraling, spiraling into an abyss of noise, noise, noise, noise...

"Noise!" Sherlock shouted, and abruptly stopped playing. Mrs. Hudson stopped what she was saying and looked offended.

"Well, beg your pardon," she said and bustled off in a flurry of rage. Sherlock paid no mind and went back to his violin, staring at the ant-people outside crawling all over their hovels and hallways. Curious little things. Weren't they?

"John Watson, I insist you get your lazy arse out of this house!" Mary said as she walked into the kitchen and found him in exactly the same spot he was in two hours ago.

"And why is that?" John asked, slightly dazed and sore-eyed from staring at his blog.

"You've be reading that thing all day, it's time for some more entries. Your readers are getting bored," she said pointedly, obviously referring to herself.

"Are they now?" John asked as she moved the laptop and settled herself in its place.

"Excruciatingly so. Plus, I'm going to the shops. So unless you're going to be cleaning the floors while I'm gone..."

"Yes, right, you're right. I'll be on my way," John said, hopping up with Mary in his arms. He didn't admit to himself that he nearly dropped her as his arms sagged from lack of a proper workout. Maybe Mary was right, he had gained a bit of weight lately...

"Good. Don't get into too much mischief," Mary said through a smile. John didn't answer. Because he knew exactly how he was going to spend the afternoon...


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John stood in front of his old flat at Baker street and was immediately hit with a wave of nostalgia. Even though it had only been a month, the place seemed like a phantom image from the back of his mind. It didn't help that a considerable gloom had settled around London, promising a bout of rain before too long. That only heightened the imaginary drama of John's mind.

"Well, no use in stalling,"John said out loud to no one in particular. And he walked up the steps to 221B.

"Thank God you're here," Mrs. Hudson said as soon as John walked in. She was on her way down the stairs from Sherlock's flat. "He's gone completely mad! I don't know what to do, John. Honestly, the man has been a wreck since you've gone. All day and night, sawing away at that bloody violin! I'm at my wits end!" Mrs. Hudson said, nearly trembling.

"Right, Mrs. Hudson, I'll have a word with him," John replied, suddenly dreading walking up the last flight of stairs. He could hear a string of nonsensical musical notes and what sounded like a shelf being knocked over.

"See that you do...but it is so nice to see you, dear. How are things with Mary?" She asked, snapping back to her former self in an instant.

"Things are going well, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm going to go..."

Another huge bang echoed down the stairwell.

"Right," Mrs. Hudson said, and bustled off into her own flat.

John took the stairs two at a time and paused at the door when he finally reached it. He was not prepared for what he saw.

All of the furniture had been tipped over and made into an impressively symmetrical dome in the center of the living room. It was almost like a child's fort but somehow...refined. Everything else that might have been on bookshelves or tables was scattered haphazardly across the floor. Including Sherlock's poor skull that was tipped over onto the top of his cranium. John resisted the urge to right it.

The kitchen was a complete disaster area. Experiments had completely taken over every free space and something bubbling on the stove was beginning to burn. John turned off the burners and the noise of the violin ceased.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, suddenly appearing behind John. "Are you trying to ruin my experiment? They sent you, didn't they? To ruin it. To ruin _everything_. Why else would you be here? You haven't been here in four weeks, two days, thirteen hours, seventeen minutes. Of course what else could you take from me? WHAT ELSE?" Sherlock prattled off in a riot of words and clicking teeth. His eyes were shifting back and forth at a furious pace.

If ever there was a mess, Sherlock Holmes was one. His hair was a wild birds nest sticking out in all places, clearly unwashed. As was his skin. A clear sheen of sparkling sweat covered over the milky-pale skin of his uncovered torso. That, by the way, was nearly skeletal now. He was wearing pajama bottoms low on his hips and his dressing gown untied. In one hand was his violin, in the other a zucchini. And his eyes, well, they were bloody blown out, fixed, and dilated. No question about it, Sherlock Holmes was high as a kite.

"What have you done, you prat?" John asked in a voice so angry he hardly recognized it. It was like the voice of a disapproving father finding his son smoking behind the garage.

"What _have_ I done, John? Oh, John, did you bring me a case? I'm sure it's rather obvious but I've been so booooooooored," Sherlock actually bloody laughed at his own voice and threw the zucchini at the tower of furniture across the way.

"Now what is the point of all this?" John asked, unable to conceal his outrage. His arms flew out into the air as though he was gesturing at everything.

"Well I'm testing the structural integrity of my fort, John. And vegetables make very suitable projectiles. You see, judging by the weak points in the architecture, if I hit it at just the right point, I should get the whole thing to collapse outwards. Of course," Sherlock explained, picking up a wooden spoon and throwing it so hard that it missed the pile and embedded itself in the fireplace.

"Not that, you massive idiot, this! The drugs! I thought you were clean. After all this time, really, Sherlock?" John asked, becoming exasperated and emotional. He blamed himself. He wasn't here to check on Sherlock. He wasn't here at all. It was as though John had checked out of real life for a few blissful weeks of marriage. Tears were rapidly springing up to his eyes and he tried to choke them back.

"Don't be dense, John. I _was_ clean. Although I will admit to doing drugs, I am not an addict. And I assure you it is for a case. A very. Important. Case..." Sherlock seemed distracted momentarily as though listening to something. "Come inside, quickly," Sherlock said, suddenly getting down on his hands and knees and crawling into the furniture domicile.

"No, Sherlock. Come out here. We need to have a talk about what we are going to do about this," John said, crossing his arms.

"Shhhhhhhh! Quickly, John! It's a matter of life and death." Sherlock said quickly, motioning frantically to him. John surrendered and got down on his hands and knees to squeeze himself into the tiny opening of the fort. Maybe Sherlock was just acting, maybe this was all for a case...It certainly wouldn't be the most extreme thing he'd ever done.

"Sherlock, I think we need to call your brother. He can get you some help and-"

"No, no, no, no, no, John. You see, that's why I built this. Mycroft has spies. EVERYWHERE. Probably even bugged the flat. But in here, he can't see me. No Mycroft, no malicious government tracking. Safe," Sherlock explained. "Oh and do be careful, there are quite a few sharps three inches from your left hand, some of which are loaded,"

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted and finally had enough. He pushed over the upturned sofa and all of a sudden everything in the fort collapsed outwards in a neat little circle.

"Well done, John. See the point of leverage was-"

"Shut. Up. Now. Just shut up so I can think about what to do with you," John said, lifing up the sofa so it was right way up, and sitting down with his head between his hands. "My fault, all my bloody fault,"

"What is that racket? It sounds like the whole building is about to come down!" Mrs. Hudson said, entering the flat with considerably less shock than John had.

"Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock isn't mad. He's doing cocaine," John explained, giving Mrs. Hudson a weary look.

"Yes, dear, I know," Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head.

"If you knew then why didn't you call me?!" John asked, staring at her wide-eyed.

"Well I promised Sherlock I wouldn't tell. He can be quite convincing, you know. I think he and his brother have quite a mean streak. That's twice I've been threatened by a Holmes. But, I never said anything about not letting you into his flat while he was going bonkers," She said sweetly, shooting Sherlock a saccharine smile. He stuck his tongue out at her like a child and flopped down on a pile of blankets, unwashed shirts, and damp towels.

"I don't even have Mycroft's number. He always just appears out of the bloody fog..." John murmured to himself.

"I'm sure he'll turn up before too long, dear," Mrs. Hudson said on her way down the stairs. Comforting. Because once Mycroft found out Sherlock was doing drugs again...Sherlock, John, or both would probably be tortured in some abandoned Russian nuke chamber 50 feet below the snow.

John looked over at Sherlock who was all of a sudden very mellow. The initial effects of the cocaine had apparently worn off and he was staring absently at the ceiling. Before too long he would probably fall asleep. Either that, or go into a fit of unprovoked rage. John favored the former.

"So what are we to do?" John repeated at Sherlock, who looked like he was concentrating very hard on something.

"What?! About what?! What do we DO? I was perfectly fine before YOU entered the picture, both before we met and now. I didn't ask you to become involved in my life," Sherlock was standing now, nearing John with wild eyes, scratching at his neck feverishly. "Before you made me FEEL things. Feelings! For the weak and the stupid! Why would you make me feel? FELLINGS JOHN, SENTIMENT," Sherlock ranted.

"Calm down now, Sherlock. Everything is going to be fine," John said, putting a hand out at him like he was trying to calm a wild pony. Sherlock got very close to John's face now. John was sincerely hoping he wasn't going to have to punch his best friend in the face.

"I was fine until you came into my life, but you dug down inside me like a parasite, niggling and and eating away at my clarity, at my...sanity...now I can't get you out. You changed me and you left me...John..." Sherlock's lips were mere centimeters away from John's now and his heart began to beat faster. Some overwhelming burn cast itself into John's stomach, a feeling altogether too familiar having lived with Sherlock's beauty for so long. John buried the feeling, as he always had, knowing it was inappropriate. Especially at this juncture. However something inside John longed to close that gap between them. Just a breath away...

"N-now Sherlock, ahem, I suggest you step back and calm yourself down," John said, putting a strong and steady hand on both of Sherlock's shoulders.

"CALM! I AM CALM!" Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs. He put his hands into fists and yelled at the top of his lungs a scream that sounded like it was bellowed from the depths of Hell. Then, all at once, Sherlock went red faced and passed out directly on the floor.

John ran over to check his vitals to ensure Sherlock wasn't overdosing. Without knowing how much cocaine he had consumed, John was hesitant to let him lay there. But his heart rate was steadily calming down now that he was horizontal. It was most likely Sherlock had only exhausted himself entirely.

 _So what now? Do I try to contact Mycroft? Surely he knows by now what Sherlock is up to. Not much gets past him. Do I make Sherlock stop taking drugs? Well that's obvious. But can I stop him is the better question._

 _"You changed me and you left me...John..."_ Those words echoed in John's head. Maybe...well maybe John needed to move back into Baker street for a while. He would explain it all to Mary, she would understand. In fact, she would probably encourage him to do it. That would clearly be the best way to monitor Sherlock's recovery rather than send him to a treatment facility. Imagine all the bad press they would get from that...still...would Sherlock consent to it?

John could only wait until he was sober to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello all! Thank you so much for your comments and faves. I wasn't expecting anyone to like this so it's really a treat. This chapter is about John. Mostly the history of John's affections for Sherlock, and takes a break from the plot. The next chapter will have us on track again.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 3

John struggled to pull Sherlock's lifeless body into his bedroom, feeling the protestations of his back and shoulder as he dragged the lengthy man reminded John of his age. In the process of pulling, Sherlock's robe fell to the floor, forcing John to grab him underneath the armpits and drag him corpse style down the hall. The doctor found himself wincing every time a pale ankle hit a corner.

In contrast to the living room, Sherlock's room was barren. Only the dingy drapes adorned the walls and a single bottle of asprin sat on the night stand. It was like the place had been gutted. Even the drawers sagged open, devoid of clothing, a single suit hung in the closet. John assumed all the rest of the detectives clothes were in the pile in the living room. Soiled and soggy.

Squatting low and preparing his legs, John took both arms underneath his friend and lifted him awkwardly into the bed, rolling Sherlock into his stomach. John collapsed and splayed across Sherlock with the effort. He laid there for a moment, panting, taking in the scent of Sherlock's sheets. Detergent, chemical fumes, his bloody expensive shampoo, and Sherlock's identifiable and intoxicating musk. The warmth and suppleness under Johns body felt so comfortable...so strangely familiar though they had never been so close before.

John sat up and examined the lithe curves of Sherlock's torso. The ghostly bumps of his rib cage were like a whisper in the dark, the soft curves of his sides like a spring breeze, the sloping dip of his back that swelled to his lovely backside like a sonnet, a landscape of perfection-

 _What the?_

 _John Watson that is your best friend,_ he chided himself.

So why was it always like this between him and Sherlock. Sure, they were best mates, they lived together, but for some reason there way always this intensity between them. They would lock eyes in a manner that made the whole world fall away. John would sometimes be swept away by Sherlocks beauty and brilliance as he played his violin, and that look Sherlock got when John figured out something important for a case. It was pure pride, admiration, bliss. What they had between them was something intense and unspoken but there it was, on the fringes of John's mind since the beginning.

 _Chemistry._

Maybe that was why everyone assumed they were a couple. That they were...gay. Not that John had any idea of if Sherlock even thought, or knew about sex (he didn't even know about the solar system for heavens sake)melt alone if he was gay or not. But John wasn't gay, he had never had feelings like that before for other men. He had felt envy, comradery, admiration, something akin to love, but never had he been sexually interested in men before. Before _Sherlock. That is._

 _I_ t wasn't long after he moved into Baker Street that the dreams started coming. The first few shocked John with their explicit nature. He had never even been with a man and yet here was his unconscious mind, conjuring up images of absolutely vivid and intense sex involving Sherlock. But after a while...well John came to look forward to them. A night that John dreamt of Sherlock was a night well spent. And a rather enjoyable morning working off the effects of the dreams on his body. All with fresh new images of what Johns brain though Sherlock would look like, laid bare in front of him, panting, begging...

But of course he never acted on those dreams, those strange impulses. John went to medical school, he knew the odd ways in which the brain interpreted things. A dream was just the brains way of conveying information. John adored Sherlock. He did. And he admitted that to himself rather early on. Also, John hadn't been with a woman in a long, long time. Those two things combined equalled a sex dream involving his best mate. This lust that came as a result of his dreams didn't mean John wanted to act on those impulses. At least, that's how it was for a while.

John didn't know when it was that those tight shirts started to taunt him. Maybe he had too many dreams about ripping the buttons right off and running his hands down that smooth, porcelain flesh, that his fantasy world was now mixing with his waking reality. But something about the way the expensive damn fabric stretched across his narrow chest, the way that coat flourished in a way that spoke of pure drama and whimsy, the way those seemingly careless curls caressed his insane cheekbones translated into pure _desire._

Sherlock drove him mad with wanting for six beautiful and torturous months. All the while, Sherlock didn't seem to notice those lingering glances, the way John would blush when his roommate strutted around barely dressed as he stretched out like a cat on their sofa. Or he probably did, but deduced something else completeLy preposterous.

Then the incident with the Fall...

Johns heart broke. His soul vacated his body. The will to live...was drowned by the pain. For a few weeks people were constantly checking up. It became annoying so John made an effort to put on a good face and act like he was grieving like a responsible human. But he turned to drinking for a while, and other times moping about, looking through old pictures and reading the blog. To say he missed Sherlock would never be enough. John was less when Sherlock was gone.

Mary was his savior. If it wasn't for her John would have given up in his time of grief. She was his angel, his grace. John truly did love Mary. And she loved him, even as his grief healed slowly. His memories of Sherlock never withered, nor did the missing him. For John was not the same afterward. But the pain was eased because of Mary's love.

Then Sherlock walks out of the bloody mist.

John wouldn't have been happier if it was the second coming.

Hate, anger, elation, confustion, all arose. Mostly Relief. And overwhelming gratitude to whatever power gave him back Sherlock. But he was angry. For a long time John was livid because of what he went through thanks to that insane genius.

 _...he changed me and then he left me..._

John paused in his thoughts and looked over Sherlock again. Could it be that he was now going through a similar thing to what John had? Granted, your flatmate getting married was not the same as death. But to Sherlock...

So did that mean Sherlock's feelings ran so deep for John that he had to turn to drugs to escape the pain? Or was it simple boredom? Because John knew Sherlock had the capacity for some emotion, but what John was talking about was sentimental.

 _"SENTIMENT, JOHN!"_

No. John couldn't allow himself to think it. Could it be that after all this time... Sherlock felt the same?


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes did not wake up as other people woke. Rather than being slowly roused by sensations that trickled in like a noise, or the light from the window, his entire brain snapped on all at once like a computer roaring to life. Sensory input was taken in and evaluated instantaneously, while outputting deductions and other data into Sherlock's conscious mind at nearly the speed of light.

 _Sunlight entering the room at a 45 degree angle, it is approximately 9:00 am_

 _Door left ajar, someone was in here. Burglar? No, nothing seems upturned or stolen._

 _Smell of tea, Mrs. Hudson? No. Too early._

 _Lack of clothing on upper body, sore ankles, intense headache..._

The previous day erupted in Sherlock's mind, a series of powerful and strange recollections that were minced somewhere between reality and that land where the mind went free. He remembered John being back in Baker street, like a living phantom of memories past. His presence at once made Sherlock incredibly pleased and intensely angry. Sherlock first and foremost wanted to be left alone to his experiments and drug-addling.

No doubt John was about to lecture him about the adverse effects of cocaine on the human body and the psyche. (As if Sherlock didn't already know them) and probably berate him for making terrible decisions. On top of all that, Sherlock had the mother of all headaches and was already itching for another hit of cocaine. But he certainly couldn't shoot up right in front of John while he was blathering about drugs. Could he? No... that was...wrong? Yes. It was a bit not good. Surely.

This was going to be a _loathsome_ morning.

Sherlock sat up on his mattress and untangled his legs from the sheets wrapped about him, coiled like snakes searching to strangle him in his sleep. Without putting on a scrap more clothing than already wore, which amassed to his underpants and nothing else, Sherlock popped three aspirin in his mouth, swallowed them dry, and sauntered out to face the mess he had created.

John sat calmly on Sherlock's sofa after he put back all the furniture and objects Sherlock had used to build his fort. He brewed himself a cup of tea with the kettle that was unmoved from where John left it when he vacated Baker street. There he sat and thought, carefully, about everything Sherlock had said to him the previous day in the throes of his high.

First off, he said he was doing drugs for a case. Well that was a load of bologna if he every heard it.

Then, he turned around and blamed his relapse on John. Now _that_ was what really boiled John's blood. Sherlock Holmes was a grown adult, even though he rarely acted like it, but he had reason enough to know what he was doing. No one was forcing him to do drugs, most of all John. While it was true that maybe Sherlock was having a hard time re-adjusting to living without a roommate, but that was hardly John's fault. He would not be blamed for Sherlock's mishandling of himself, thank you very much.

Sherlock sauntered into the living room wearing his dressing gown open and untied, his scanty briefs, and nothing else besides. John instantly felt his cheeks heat up as he got a good glimpse of Sherlock's lanky torso and the delicious curve where his hips formed a long V shape straight below the waistband of those ridiculous underwear. Sherlock's hair was unruly, and his skin was pale, even the dark bruises under his eyes drew John's appreciation. He almost forgot he was angry at all.

" 'Morning," John said in his best disapproving tone. Sherlock didn't reply. He helped himself to a cup of tea from John's kettle, walked across the room, and curled up half his size into John's old armchair.

"Let's skip the lecture and go straight to the part where you tell me I have to stop doing drugs, shall we? To which I reply, _No._ We would then argue, and in the end you realize that nothing you say can stop me. There. Socially constructed conversational necessities bypassed," Sherlock said in a nearly deadpan voice. He sipped his tea expectantly as he stared at John.

"Oh no, you're not getting off that easily. I am deeply offended by the exchange between us yesterday and I expect my thoughts to be heard!" John's voice raised unexpectedly, even to him. Sherlock for once looked slightly surprised and taken aback by John's reaction.

"You're angry," Sherlock pointed out, looking over john like a specimine. "But something more...hurt, and guilty. But why would you be hurt by this? It's not like you're the one ingesting the drugs. And guilt is an entirely uncalled for reaction," Sherlock was talking to himself, making notes with his eyes and working through things in his brain. Something John would usually marvel at.

Silence fell between them for a moment before John cleared his throat to continue in a more normal voice.

"Sherlock, yesterday you said some things that were quite unfair. Even more than the drugs, which I am absolutely livid about the drugs, you've gone and made a complete arse of yourself to Mrs. Hudson and offended me.

Now I will not be blamed for your addiction. I'm sorry that my leaving Baker street has been hard. I mean, _christ_ Sherlock, it's been hard for me too. You're...you're my best mate and I know I haven't been around a lot lately. But you're an adult, Sherlock. Things change, people change, people move on. You can't just throw your life away because things don't stay the same,"

"If I recall, John, I never said you were the cause of my addiction, or my apparent 'relapse' as yo u call it," Sherlock said indignintly.

"You said to me _I was fine until you came into my life,_ and _You changed me and you left me._ How else am I supposed to interpret that? _"_ Anger welled up again inside of John upon realizing Sherlock wasn't taking this seriously at all and was going to avoid blame or responsibility for anything.

"You can interpret it any way you want. It has no bearing on whether I'm going to stop doing cocaine. It's my choice! I want to do it so I'll do it!" Sherlock was angry now too. He uncoiled himself from the chair and held his torso stiff and tense. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply and a dark scowl marred his face. As if to punctuate his point Sherlock pulled out a small pouch of white powder from a vase on top of the mantle.

"Don't you dare! Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare!" John warned. Like a rebellious teenager, Sherlock gave John a cheeky look and put a line of cocaine on the back of his hand. With one last daring glance, Sherlock snorted it and tilted his head back in triumph.

John and Sherlock glared at eachother for a long moment before John threw his arms up in the air.

"You bastard...Fine! We'll do this the hard way then. I was going to offer to help you detox here in Baker street, get you back on your feet. But seeing as you're being such an _insufferable prick_ I'm going to have to go with plan B. I'll get a hold of Mycroft somehow and we'll have you sent back to a treatment facility. I'm sure your poor parents will be incredibly disappointed. In the meantime Mrs. Hudson can rent out the place-"

"Don't call Mycroft. This is none of his business. Frankly, neither is it yours. I don't have a problem and I don't want to stop taking cocaine," Sherlock argued.

"...why is Lestrade here?" the shaking detective asked after the sound of the front door slamming made its way upstairs. Already he was starting to mount the top of his high and was getting jittery. John smirked smugly at him. "You called the police on me?" Sherlock asked, outraged and becoming paranoid.

"No, he called a friend," Lestrade answered, eyeing Sherlock warily. People were liable to do violent things when they were on drugs like this.

"Lovely, just what I need at this juncture," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes and crossing his legs in a manner that reminded John momentarily of Mycroft.

"I'm sorry but it was a necessary measure," John replied with just the smallest hint of a smug smile cracking his lips. For the moment he felt as though he had bested Sherlock.

"Listen, Sherlock, if you don't agree to John's terms then I'm going to have to charge you for criminal possession of illegal substances. I really don't want to have to do that, but I will if you put up a fight. And I'll make sure your meddling big brother doesn't interfere,"

Sherlock was looking back and forth between them with eyes moving at the speed of light.

"Why is everyone so against me? You're all conspiring to ruin me. You can't stop me, I can do anything I want. I'm Sherlock Holmes," At that Sherlock went over to the window and threw it open. He looked equally as mad as he was, standing nearly naked in the front window of their apartment, barred to the open air with wild eyes and a sweaty face, hair sticking to his forehead.

"Get down!" Lestrade yelled, and roughly pulled Sherlock aside.

For a moment it looked like Sherlock was going to retaliate by punching Lestrade, but instead he settled for giving a dignified look and walking stalwartly into the kitchen. He began examining something in his experiments and fired up the stove once again. Sherlock began moving around the kitchen at lightning speed, gathering untensils, looking in his microscope, and writing down notes as fast as he could. After a solid five minutes he spared the two a glance as if they were intruding on his office space.

"Fine, I'll agree to do as John says. What are the terms?," he said, exasperatedly. Annoyance leaked off of the detective in his still volatile state.

Lestrade looked to John who looked back at him, astonished. John cleared his throat.

"That you'll agree to cease all cocaine use...ah, and in exchange you will not be forced into an institutional rehabilitation center. You can detox here, and I'll monitor your vitals. But if I think you need to go to the hospital, you're going," John tried to finish in a firm voice but somehow felt awkward and in the spotlight. He looked to Lestrade who gave them both a quizzical look, a curt nod, and left as quickly as he appeared.

Sherlock flopped onto the couch holding his violin and began playing a fast and intense song that sounded like a raging battle. John wasn't sure how he managed to pull this off without something dramatic happening. Other than Sherlock standing mostly starkers in the front window, bared to all of London.

An unknown number began buzzing on John's phone. He looked at it confused and answered.

"John," came the voice. Speak of the devil. It was Mycroft.

"Good Morning," John replied politely. Of course. It was really only a matter of time before Mycroft got involved.

"Walk outside and get in the cab," Mycroft instructed. John rolled his eyes, but walked out the front door, leaving Sherlock in his angry stupor for the time being.

John got into the running taxi, hardly impressed with Mycroft's fanfare by now. There he was, sitting in the back of the cab, legs crossed, umbrella across them perpindicularly.

"Isn't this a bit of overkill?" John asked, Mycroft turned up his nose and didn't reply.

"I've known what Sherlock has been up to for quite some time. Before even you did," Mycroft informed curtly.

"I wouldn't doubt that," John said nervously.

Mycroft sighed deeply and the starched expression on his face softened and he put his head in his hands. He looked up at John with the most human expression he had seen the elder Holmes boy make.

"My brother...has suffered a lot, John, and I'm not sure if you are aware," Mycroft said with an exhausted look. John looked at him skeptically, he had no idea what Mycroft was talking about.

"No...I-I don't know what you're referring to, sorry," John said, crinkling his forehead in confusion.

"When Sherlock was young he was...different. I don't know if you can imagine a young Sherlock and all his blunt observations and propensity for being a 'knowitall' but he was not very well liked. In fact, it came to a point where Sherlock was kept away from many of the other children we knew. Their parents did not want them exposed to the sensitivities of Sherlock's gaze. In his young mind, Sherlock began to separate himself into the 'Other' category. And as he drew further into his own mind, the outside world began to fade farther from him until he just seemed to never learn how to be...a member of society. It fostered some antisocial tendencies," Mycroft explained. "But what he really felt was confused, unsure of why he was rejected. And he was lonely. I was there the whole time trying to distract him from their ridicule. But I never could, truly. I'm not sure if Sherlock is even aware, but his drug habit formed out of a combination of self hatred and loneliness,"

John was slightly shocked by what he was hearing. He always assumed Sherlock was a child prodigy and was generally put up with until he was an adult.

"As a teenager he was prone to depression and self-mutilation. Although during that period he wrote some magnificent poetry. And he found solace in his dancing and Shakespeare. As much as he claims he doesn't feel, doesn't sympathize, doesn't understand, the man as an incredible capacity for angst. He began doing cocaine at eighteen. His addiction went on so long that our parents, and even myself, didn't know where he was or if he was alive. He lived on the streets, crashing in drug dens and doing whatever he had to do to buy drugs. He robbed a few convenience stores, he did some drug pedaling himself. When I finally tracked him down, mind you this was many years before I had any sort of sway in the government, I found him in a whorehouse where they all got paid in cocaine and heroin. He was so out of his mind that he didn't want to leave. My parents were devastated, of course.

For a period of months after he got out of the rehabilitation, Sherlock was very quiet. He walked like a ghost, said nothing, only seemed to think. Constantly. Then one day, he moved out. I kept my eye on him, of course. But he seemed to be transitioning into a form of adulthood. He began solving mysteries on the back streets for some of his drug dealer and homeless friends about who killed who. One day, an undercover officer got involved in one of Sherlock's own investigations about a string of gang killings. Sherlock solved it before the yard. And the officer just so happened to be Lestrade. When Lestrade got promoted, in order to keep Sherlock away from the streets, he began letting Sherlock look over the current case files and giving suggestions. Before long, he became the world's first consulting detective," Mycroft seemed to finish and was carefully analyzing John's expression.

John, himself, didn't know what to think. He never knew any of these things about Sherlock. He never would have even guessed. He was on some level hurt that Sherlock never told him these things, as he was supposed to be his best mate. But, at the same time, John understood why Sherlock would keep it a secret. Because as much as he tried to pretend otherwise, Sherlock cared what others thought of him.

"The reason I'm telling you all of this is so that maybe you can figure out how to stop this. Four times Sherlock has had a relapse, this is the fifth. And I want it to be the final time. I believe you may be the last piece of the puzzle. For some reason, my brother has gotten closer to you than any other human being in his life. He trusts you. Maybe you can find out how to get him to stop forever. Find what it is that will make him content," the last sentence sounded like a plea, but Mycroft's posture was completely put together and dignified. John didn't know what to say, his tongue was heavy in his mouth. He nodded dryly and got out of the cab.

Back inside, Sherlock was again in the kitchen. John watched him warily as he began rummaging the cabinets. He grabbed something from the inside of a jam jar, a small plastic bag. He walked over slowly and handed it to John.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to start by doing this," Sherlock said, looking John dead in the eyes with a challenging expression. In the bag was cocaine.

"Is there more?" John asked, looking at the stash. Sherlock frowned. Reluctantly they went around the apartment, finding small stashes of cocaine in the most remote and genius places that John would have never thought to look. Which was why he had little hope that Sherlock was going to give up all of his cocaine.

As they went around it became aparent how many times Sherlock had done this same routine with people pleading for him to stop this. The heavy weight of Sherlock's past pressed into John, seeing his friend in a new light. Knowing all he did, it only made John adore Sherlock more.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock got into a bad mood as he began to come down from the cocaine. He locked himself in his room and refused to speak to John, or even look at him. Whereas John was previously angry with Sherlock, now he felt sympathy for Sherlock, and the want to help him. To help him to know himself.

In the meantime, John called Mary and told her about what was going on. She agreed that it was best that John stay there until Sherlock was detoxed. Of course she would come for a visit the next day, and John would have to go home to get his clothes. Mary seemed oddly happy about the whole thing. She was very shocked at first, but she then realized how fitting Sherlock's history was that Mycroft that told John.

When John hung up with his wife, he went up to Sherlock's room to make sure he was doing okay. He stood by the closed door an listened for a while. He thought at first he heard Sherlock hyperventilating and almost bum-rushed the door. But after a moment John realized he heard the sound of Sherlock Holmes _crying_. He was so surprised, he waiting an entire ten minutes to be sure. John's protective nature took over and he quickly decided he need to become invovled. Finally, John mustered up enough courage and opened Sherlock's door.

He was laying on his side facing the door. He had an old grey shirt with long sleeves and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms. His hands were up by his face on the pillow and his eyes were affixed to the opposite wall. The blue orbs were filled with tears, brimming like the tragic ocean. His cheeks were stained and red, and in that moment, he looked so innocent and beautiful John could swear he was twenty years younger.

"Normal bodily reaction to the rapid reduction of dopamine in the system," Sherlock said weakly in a cracking voice. John thought maybe he sould be embarassed for walking in on his best friend, a grown man, crying. But he felt nothing like that. Boldly, he went up and sad on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock, putting a chaste and friendly hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock stilled, as if he was holding in all the tears and emotions inside him. At any second he could explode.

"Sherlock, what's wrong. I mean, really wrong? Because there's something else. Not the case, not 'boredom' you wouldn't be this upset if it were," John said gently in his doctoring voice.

"I'm not upset," Sherlock said in a small voice, sniffling pathetically.

"Can you pretend you're a human being with real emotions for a moment? Here we are, planet Earth, not Sherlock's Mind Palace. Hello. Yes, you're upset. Clearly. Or you wouldn't have turned to drugs to deal with it. Now out with it. Is it it because of the marriage?" John asked, gently rubbing Sherlock's arm comfortingly. Sherlock turned over and put his face into the pillow and began sobbing.

"Hey, it's alright, just relax. You're coming down, it'll all be over soon," John whispered, putting his hand in the middle of Sherlock's heaving back. Never in a million years did John think he would ever see the great detective this vulnerable, this emotional. Of course some of it had to do with the drugs, but for a moment Sherlock's defenses were down.

Sherlock came around and sat up. He wiped his eyes on a shirtsleeve and looked embarassedly at John, who was sitting on the end of the bed still.

"...sorry," Sherlock said quietly, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Sherlock, don't apologize for acting human," john said with a soft smile, touching Sherlock's arm again. It was the most casual contact they'd ever had and yet it felt so intimate. Sherlock's warmth under his hand was like touching a celestial being. Rare and intense. Sherlock looked down at John's hand and hesitantly touched it with his opposite one. John's eyes widened.

They sat there in silence, John's muscles straining to hold the position because he didn't want to break this moment. Something came over him. That something that John had ignored, just like the dreams, just like the lust, just like everything. But it was like someone was posessing him as John kicked off his shoes and moved to sit besides Sherlock on the bed.

The two of them sat side by side as though they were in stadium chairs for a while, rod straight and unmoving. Neither of them knew how to react to John's move. And what did this mean? It could be interpreted as John trying to comfort his friend, but he knew that wasn't true.

"I'm proud of you," John said out into the silence. Sherlock looked into John's eyes and began to cry again, covering his face in shame.

This time, John pulled Sherlock close to his chest and held him. He stroked his back and put his fingers in his nest of greasy hair.

"Now that you've gone, I have nothing left. All I feel is this cruel _wanting,"_ Sherlock said through his tears. John didn't reply he just let Sherlock fall apart, and he did his best to hold on to all the pieces.

"I'm not good at emotions, John. I don't like this, its the hardest thing for me. It's so _painful._ And I don't know what to say to you right now," Sherlock said desperately, not looking at John.

"You don't have to say anything, Sherlock. I'm here to help you through this, you're my best mate, remember? I'm sorry I left, Sherlock. I'm sorry. But you...you were gone. You have to understand when you were dead, it was like I was dead too. Until I snapped out of it, I may as well have been," John explained, feeling a lump rise in his own throat that threatened to spill. "Mary saved me from that life, or lackthereof. And I had to move on, I had to. Or I would have died too," John said, a few tears of his own threatening to spill.

Sherlock finally looked at him.

"I never knew how deeply I could feel for someone. Not until I met you. I kept everyone at arm's length. I learned to make myself numb. But John, you made me feel what people feel. Silly, useless, sentimental, feelings. _Friendship._ I never really knew it before. And then something else. _Yearning._ The motivation of all Shakespearean plots," Sherlock's eyes moved again, ashamed. He began to move away from John but John pulled his hand back.

"Would you believe me if I told you I've felt the same?" John said quietly, looking intensely into Sherlock's eyes. Deep confusion settled into his face and silence reigned again. "God, how long has it been? Sherlock, you don't know...you don't know how I've thought of you all this time. How I admire your brilliance, how that somehow turned into intense devotion. I would have followed you right off of that damned building if I could have," John said intensely. He put both hands on Sherlock's arms.

"What is this, John? What does it mean?" Sherlock asked about their situation. All they had was a flurry of emotion and admissions. It was dizzying and terrifying and elating all at once. For so long John had kept it in, for so long this had been a truth that would have died with John had it not come out now. So what did he do? What did they do?

John didn't reply. He only got up on his knees, and pulled Sherlock up so their torsos matched, and hugged him. A real hug, chest to chest, a tight squeeze, his head buried in Sherlock's neck while drowning in his scent. When they let go, Sherlock laid down on his side. John slid in behind him and pulled Sherlock to his chest. The lengthy man was so slender in John's arms, so breakable. He felt Sherlock's ribs rise and fall with each breath. John fell asleep to that soothing rhythm.


End file.
